


The nature of inviting

by hauntedpoem



Series: Maglor through the ages [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Control, D/s undertones, M/M, Maglor pov, Masturbation, Musician/artist/wanderer Maglor, Mutual Attraction, PWP, Pre-The Hobbit, Self-Fisting, Slash, The Silmarillion References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8055550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: Maglor offers himself to young prince Thranduil.





	The nature of inviting

**Author's Note:**

> So... I am smitten with the idea of Maglor and Thranduil together.

   When he first saw the prince, Maglor was entranced. He knew that no matter what would happen, he will have a night with the young prince of the Greenwood. Desire and a need to surrender brought him here, in this place. Desire that curdled his blood and twisted and knotted his stomach. Maglor checks his heart again, it still beats wildly, as if it wants to pound out of his ribcage. His vision is unfocused with heavy wine and witches' brew.

He settles on all fours, pulling his knees as wide as maintaining balance would allow. Then, after adjusting on the straw mattress draws his bottom's cheeks apart and sighs as frigid air hits his lust singed skin. In this undignified position, he moans and squelches his long fingers into his wet hole. The touch makes him shudder greater than a winter's day. All his attention is concentrated on mechanical movements to drown out the clammy shame that threatens to crawl upon him.His muscles spasm uncontrollably and Maglor hides his burning face into the damp, old sheets.They smell like ash and poverty, a self-defeating smell that gets easily overpowered by the musk of his arousal.

He's too afraid to turn around and look for the reaction of Oropher's son. Maglor, for all his millennia of life experience, doesn't know what he'll find if he dares. This never happened to him. This desire, as unnatural and cloying as the fumes of a cursed oath,  is something that he never planned for. Maglor saw him, liked him, wanted him. It was simple and he paid thousands of years to grasp the perfection of such simplicity in thought. The more he saw of him, though, the more his lust grew, honest and burning. 

He knows that what he's doing now is less dignified than what mortal prostitutes do in squalid brothels for a silver coin or for a warm bowl of soup. However, for Maglor, things are simpler. He needs very little now in order to exist. In general, elves as ancient as him, rarely succumb to the needs of the hröa. He has little to live for now, except for his music and its familiar reminders. In fact, there are too many things he'd rather forget because they are useless and stand in his way as cold and impenetrable as blocks of stone. In the here and now, there's this craving that makes Maglor's whole fëa writhe and quiver.

It's the first time in a while that he wants to do something about this seemingly purposeless existence. He just wants the prince and he offers himself without any guise. He spreads himself, places his whole body and soul on the platter for inspection. What good would denial do to him after so long a time? He's been too bored and tired of taking chances and making sense of his life. Now, he just wants to surrender.

He takes a deep breath and hits the charged, hidden nerves inside his channel that make him want to burst into infinitesimal pieces. Pleasure never lied to the son ofCurufinwë Fëanáro.

*

   Thranduil Oropherion is _glorious_ , Maglor would follow him everywhere for he shows the rare qualities of a man who lives honestly. For a youth shown the ways of power, he seems lucid enough not to grasp it blindly. The prince is young, still, but Maglor's _fëa_ wants this tender, unspoiled light and momentarily he finds himself unable to fight against such a primordial need. He's sick with lust and the need he feels pooling into his tumescent cock is overcome only by the intense feeling of suffocation as he has no choice but to support most of his weight on his neck and clavicle. He inhales and exhales with difficulty. He realizes that caught in his tumultuous thoughts, he's forgotten how to breathe.

With an expert, well-practiced hand, Maglor pulls roughly at his ass cheek, while his other pumps wildly inside. He moans and shudders as his long, harpist fingers play with that hidden bundle of nerves rougher and faster until he's made of his own body the most responsive and complex musical instrument and now is set on testing its limits. The sound is again muffled by the dirty pillow. He feels like he's dying. Everything is silent, except for the wet, slapping sounds that he makes.

Thoughts rush into Maglor's head, ugly, dark thoughts.

_What if he left? What if he only stares in horror at this lewd display?_

His face is marred by tears and sweat. He knows that his back glistens with moisture. Everything feels too much all of a sudden, too uncomfortable, and he draws his knees closer, taking in gulps of air as if expecting his lungs to combust any second now. He is losing control over his body. His heavy cock sways and leaks over the bed cover. He can feel his balls drawing seed, they're taut, ready to release but only his neglected member impedes it. Maglor is frustrated enough that he gasps and grunts ungraciously, while he shifts weight on his otherwise free arm. He feels the skin of his buttock burn after he abused it with nails and kneaded the muscle harshly. He pushes a third finger and he's glad for the rich oil coating his fingers. _Soon_ , he can almost feel it, the pleasure will come in small pulsations withing his inner muscles.

He feels the usual reassuring fullness and tries to relax as disparate thoughts of Thranduil float about his hazy mind. 

His head fills with the details gathered by his perfect, elvish memory. In his mind's eye, he visualizes the impossibly tall prince, as tall as Singollo himself, his wide, masculine shoulders, the rippling muscle on his back, his long, sensual thighs. The perfection and presence of his body remind him of the unrestrained beauty of Fëanáro's works. He is a soul rippling song, a swing of a deadly broadsword in expert hands, he is a dream come true and Maglor wants to grasp it for a while in his forsaken hands, the way he did with his father's precious creations. He scrunches his eyes at the memory and avoids falling into that abyss of pain by remembering the mithril light of Thranduil's silken hair, that icy stare, that beautiful face, so typical of the Sindar...

To Maglor, he is perfection. Art. He wishes he'd come here sooner, instead of roaming the shores of Arda, laced with stones and dark reminders. He adds another digit and now scissors all of them lazily, taunting the muscles inside. He's breathing hard, concentrating only on his fingers' movements and how his inner muscles clench and then alternately relax. He wants to do it all, wants to fill his bloodstream with Thranduil. After several laboured breaths, Maglor pushes out then brutally pushes inside more, more of his hand with all of his fingers. He's struggling to keep still in this position and he's stopped breathing altogether. The room is too silent. Thick pearls of sweat roll over his temples, his mahogany hair is damp around his face and neck. For a moment, Maglor is deaf to what's around him. His body is as tense as a chord stretched mercilessly, ready to play a sharp note.

So this was all in vain... He doesn't sense Thranduil at all. _When did he leave anyway?_ The prince...

*

   He can't shake that look he gave Maglor as he asked him to perform one of his oldest songs in ancient Noldorin Quenya. Maglor wanted him then, more than he wanted air. Those icy blue eyes penetrating his, tearing apart the dull grey that settled there ever since his exile.That noble face turned in his direction. His tall, strong body. His expert hands... He thought how they could just crush him and Maglor would allow everything. To be fucked by that young body, to be used, to be reduced to a quivering hole, just waiting to be filled with the Sinda's seed.

Maglor wails as he cannot breathe properly and hears nothing past the blood rushing into his eardrums. The steady beat encourages him to just lose himself and sacrifice his body to the god that drew lust from him. Maglor unravels and relinquishes all pretense of control, ready to transform himself irreversibly afterwards.

"Oh, Thranduil," he gasps and stills his body to spread the fingers and push at his inner walls. He says the name a hundred times, perhaps. Maybe even more, with slight variations, as if preparing his voice for a concerto. "Thranduil." It's a dragging, desperate whisper. On his face, tears intermingle with sweat and the grit of the straw-filled mattress. His fingers hit his prostate and his cock twitches, nerves strung, he feels ropes of precum cascading down, on his thighs, then gathering into a clear, viscous pool, onto the coverlet.

Maglor needs to be undone. He needs that release.

With visible difficulty, he shifts again and his hand, although numb and tingling from the sudden rush of blood into the muscles, finds his weeping cock. He barely touches the base.

"Take your hand away."

It's an order and sounds harsh in his ears which came to accept silence and refusal. Although surprised, he doesn't turn. Maglor feels suddenly relieved and at the same time, apprehensive. He didn't read much into the tone. The words sounded neutral, typical of a commander of soldiers, indisputable, impersonal. He's giddy and shivery now and smiles into the pillow. Thranduil, Oropher's gorgeous only heir has been watching him all along. In assent, he mewls wantonly and pushes the hand to sustain his weight. It hurts, almost. He feels numb and without air. Everything's too hot and he just wants to wipe the sweat away.

Exhausted, he stills his frantic, slippery fingers. He's wet and stretched to the limit. With a choked sound, he pulls out slowly from his channel and he just knows that his ass is gaping lewdly, empty, except for the outpouring of lubrication. He's sure he's made a mess out of the bed, he can feel oil dripping everywhere, coating his insides, trickling down his aching thighs. Maglor is aroused beyond measure.

Finally, Maglor is able to move his unfeeling hand away and plops down on the mattress in acute exhaustion, trapping his tortured erection in between. He cannot even move, as the whole thing has taken a toll on his body and mind. The cooling sweat makes his body itch. He's drenched. He's glad for small mercies like feeling the rush of blood through his appendages, the tingling of overloaded nerves and the sharp, uneven breaths of his having chest. His mouth feels like a desert and half of his face lies in a lake of his own saliva. He's too tired to move. And then, there's Thranduil. He now feels Thranduil watching. The prince is so quiet, like a bird of prey assessing its prey.

At last, Maglor hears the chair creaking, the wood complaining as Thranduil rises. He hears boots on the wooden floor. Knowing that Thranduil has watched him all along, makes Maglor's heart flutter in an excited yet subdued way. After all, he asked the prince to take him, to do whatever he wanted to him. Maglor is accepting. He's grateful. He feels that his previous display was a test. And whatever awaits, he just wants it to be at the prince's hand, at the end of his magnificent cock. As the heavy boots stop at the edge of the bed, Maglor spreads himself with the last ounce of strength that he's got left. His whole body is like an instrument, waiting to be used and to be shown his real purpose.

He hears the prince exhale. It's long, loud, shuddery. In bliss, his soul sings. Thranduil will have him, it is undeniable now.

**Author's Note:**

> ...oh well, we all know what happens next.


End file.
